


Between the Shadow and the Soul

by alasse



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Lancelot and Arthur are very intense about each other, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasse/pseuds/alasse
Summary: Lancelot had asked, a few years ago, why so few returned, why, out of nearly forty or fifty, only ten or so ever made it back to the plains of Sarmatia. “Some lose their lives to Rome, Lancelot,” his father had answered, “and some, some lose their hearts.” // Before leaving Sarmatia as a young boy, Lancelot was determined that no land and no person would ever stop him from returning, but he never imagined someone like Arthur Castus could exist.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sasha_b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/gifts).



> Happy Yule, sasha_b! I loved writing this story for you, because Arthur and Lancelot in King Arthur have one of the most fascinating, complex relationships, and I loved exploring it. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Heroically beta'ed by M; all remaining mistakes are my own. Title from Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda.

The sun was rising over the rolling green plains, the early morning mist lifting and drifting away into the endless, wide sky.

Lancelot took it all in as he rode, relentlessly pushing his horse, Déor, ever forward, ever faster, something wild inside him wondering if by riding long and hard enough he could escape the fate which came ever closer for him. 

They day was near - it could be any moment now - when the Romans would come and take away the sons of the sons of the sons of the ancient Sarmatian cavalry as tribute in exchange for lives spared. A tribute; a curse. An endless list of young boys gone, and an ever-diminishing one of men returned.

Lancelot had asked, a few years ago, why so few returned, why, out of nearly forty or fifty, only ten or so ever made it back to the plains of Sarmatia. 

“Some lose their lives to Rome, Lancelot,” his father had answered, “and some—some lose their hearts.”

Lancelot could understand dying in battle, in the midst of a glorious spray of churned earth and blood and steel meeting steel, as the Sarmatian cavalry had done those many years ago. But losing one’s heart to someplace other than Sarmatia, to the wilds of Britain? He could hardly see how. What could compete with the endless green and the endless blue, with the horses running wild and free, the eagles flying high? No; Lancelot would return to Sarmatia, or die in the attempt. No other place and no other person could surpass this land; he was certain of it.

A dilapidated wall - nothing more than a pile of rocks, really - appeared in his way, and Lancelot dug his heels expertly to the horse’s sides, directing him to jump by shifting forward. The strong east wind whipped past him and he felt that, for a moment, Déor had grown wings and they were flying over the plains of Sarmatia, like one of the ancient gods hundreds of years ago. 

They rode on, until, somewhere in the distance, Lancelot spied a column of men on horseback coming closer, red cloaks whipping in the wind: Romans. The Romans had arrived.

He turned the horse on a hairpin and made his way back toward the village, no longer an ancient god but nothing more than a scared young man - a boy, really - who had to say goodbye to his family and the verdant land of his childhood.

“They’re here!” Lancelot gasped, as his mother and father ran out of the house to meet him. “They’ve come.”

His father’s mouth trembled as he placed a hand on the Déor’s neck, and his mother’s face twisted with anguish. 

“There is a legend that fallen knights return as great horses,” his father said softly. “He has seen what awaits you, and he will protect you.”

Lancelot looked around the village, taking in the small houses, his neighbors and friends. There were no tears, not anymore, not after years and years of tribute to Rome, of young sons given to the _Pax Romana_. 

“Don’t be afraid. I will return,” Lancelot promised.

His little sister yelled after him and handed him an amulet - a carved lion- which he grasped closely in his hand. As they rode out of the village, he asked one of the Roman commanders how long they would be gone.

“Fifteen years, not including the months it will take to get to your post.”

Lancelot glanced behind him once more, the ancient Sarmatian war cry ringing in his ears, and then looked forward.

Fifteen years to see the rolling plains and open sky once again, to see his parents, his little sister married and, perhaps, with children of her own.

Déor cantered ahead, and the path stretched on, seeming almost interminable, all the way to Britain.

+++

“This is to be your commander, Artorius Castus.”

Lancelot and the rest of the Sarmatians looked dubiously at the young, delicate-seeming boy, who was shorter and slighter than at least a few of them. This was the man - the boy - in whose hands their life was to rest for the next fifteen years?

“Please, call me Arthur,” the boy said, voice soft but resolute. “Welcome, all of you. I have ensured that your quarters will be comfortable, particularly for the coming winter. Please, go unpack and rest, and I shall await you in the hall with a warm meal - I’m certain you’re hungry for one after so many days on the road.”

The mention of food was enough for Bors, Geraint and Lamorak to smile and Lancelot knew that with those few, well-chosen words, Arthur had earned, if not the loyalty, at least the good-will of a fair number of the Sarmatians. As for Lancelot, it would take far more than this to trust his new commander - the grief he felt over being taken from his homeland felt far too near still, to be appeased with nothing more than warm porridge.

They trudged to the barracks they would call home for the next few years - fifteen, if they were lucky, far less if they weren’t - and Lancelot could see people around the garrison pointing at them, whispering. It seemed news of the arrival of the new group of Sarmatian knights had spread.

Later that night, as promised, Arthur welcomed them in the hall with fresh meat, warm bread, and even some watered-down mead. 

“A feast!” Kay exclaimed, elbowing Bors happily, and leading him along with Geraint and Lamorak to sit down at the table where Arthur waited.

Lancelot glanced around, saw Gawain, Galahad and Bedivere sit close to each other - they had known each other before coming here - and the rest of the boys quickly follow suit. Lancelot waited for a moment, and chose to sit as far as he could from the center of the hall and Arthur’s table. He was joined by Tristan and Dagonet, who had hardly spoken on the long journey from Sarmatia to their outpost, a quality that suited Lancelot’s dark mood just fine. 

As the meal went on, their new commander moved from table to table, asking everyone’s name in turn. Lancelot refused to look back, but he could hear the earnest questions, asked in that clear, Roman accent, the tentative jests, until at last Arthur was sitting at their table, right in front of Lancelot. 

“Hello. Might I ask - what are your names?”

Quiet reigned at the table for a moment, and Arthur cleared his throat.

Probably taking pity on him, Dagonet shifted forward. “I’m Dagonet.”

“Tristan.”

A beat, a soft nudge on his boot from Dag, and he finally said, “Lancelot.”

“Dagonet, Tristan, Lancelot, welcome. As I said earlier today, I’m Arthur, and I shall be your commander, “ Arthur told them, his hazel green eyes moving quickly between the three of them. “I - I want to promise you that I will do everything I can to ensure you have the best training, and I shall train alongside you, so that in fifteen years…”

“We can be free?” Lancelot asked, as derisive as he could manage, given the treacherous hope he couldn’t help feeling at the words.

“Yes,” Arthur replied, and then kept going, something fervent and young bubbling over in his voice. “I mean to say - you’re already free, you - I have been taught by a very wise man all men are born free. So I shall train with you, and fight with you, so that you can enjoy that freedom, and go home.”

“Or die in the attempt,” Lancelot shot back.

Arthur’s bright green eyes dimmed. “It is not for me but for God to decide whether men should live or die. But I promise, Lancelot, that I will do what I can to protect you.”

Lancelot looked at him, at the young, thin boy in front of him, and wanted to trust him, his eyes, his fervent promise. But he had heard too many stories, had seen the Sarmatian villages shrink as fewer and fewer men returned, had seen the anguish in his mother’s face, had heard it in his father’s admonition. Arthur could promise all he wanted, but what were the odds that he actually meant it? That he would actually train and suffer by their side? Lancelot’s hand went to his sister’s amulet around his neck, and he could say nothing.

Eventually, Arthur nodded slightly and stood from the table, pausing to glance back at them once before rejoining the table in the middle, where Bors’ story about once accidentally releasing a whole herd of horses into his neighbor’s vegetable patch was being received with general laughter.

+

The days passed; the Sarmatian boys were trained from dawn to dusk by various Roman soldiers, put through their paces relentlessly. And, against all expectation, Arthur was there next to them every day, as they sparred and fought and rode, as they learned how to fire bow and arrow and wield sword and ax, as they were tossed into the mud and wrung out within an inch of their lives.

Lancelot could see that Arthur’s determination was slowly but surely winning over the loyalty of the Sarmatian boys - even Tristan, who only seemed to like birds, most days - but Lancelot couldn’t seem to feel the same way. As the long days turned into cold nights, he lay in the rickety cot assigned to him and remembered the warmth of his old home, the sound of the crackling fire, the smell of spices and leather, and only felt colder. 

His discomfort with Arthur’s command and longing for home didn’t seem to have an impact on his skills with a sword, however, because as the weeks wore on, it became clear that he was among the very best, easily winning bouts with the other Sarmatian boys and nearly winning against the Roman soldiers.

“Did you train in the sword before, boy?” one of the soldiers - a grizzled, scarred man by the name of Caius - asked him. 

“No, sir. Just riding,” Lancelot replied.

“Hmm. A natural, then,” Caius said. “Well, you’re about as good with your right arm as you are with your left, which is bound to be useful against those godless Woads.”

And with that, Lancelot was pressed into longer training hours, and made to practice using a sword with his left arm, then his right, and then with a sword in each hand. It made a few of the younger boys envious - Galahad, especially - but Lancelot wished he hadn’t been singled out, since all the additional training seemed to do was break open his hands and tire him out even more. It also made Arthur seek him out more often and sit next to him for meals, which was inexplicable. Couldn’t he see that Lancelot didn’t care for him? Why not sit with Bors or Gaheris, or Kay and Owain, who seemed to follow Arthur around like lapdogs?

“He sees the other boys look up to you. He thinks you could be his second in command,” Tristan finally told him, one night.

“Second in command? But I don’t even like him! I don’t trust him. Why would I ever agree to do that?” Lancelot sputtered. 

Tristan just raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

Lancelot shook his head. Romans were strange. And Tristan was stranger. 

+

“We’ve been here over six months,” Dagonet told them over breakfast, one morning. 

“Only six? Seems longer,” Lancelot said, frowning. 

“And it’s nothing, compared to the years we have left,” Tristan put in. “So better to stop counting.” 

Dagonet nodded and went on eating his porridge, but Lancelot couldn’t stop turning over the date in his head. 

Over six months… they had missed the Fall harvest, then, and the Midwinter celebrations, when everyone in the surrounding villages came together in a great feast, to tell great tales of Sarmatian warriors and sing to their memory. And Lancelot had missed his sister’s song, the one she had been practicing for the feast for months. How long would this last, he wondered? How long would the thought of Sarmatia be like a blade to his heart? Was he to spend the next fifteen years like this? 

That night he turned over and over in his cot until Bors yelled at him to be quiet. Knowing he was unlikely to fall asleep any time soon, Lancelot got up and made his way to the stables. Perhaps brushing down Déor would calm his thoughts and soothe his heart.

The stable was quiet, and mostly dark except for cold moonlight drifting in through one of the windows. Lancelot went to Déor, who greeted him with a soft neigh. Soon enough, he was lost in the soothing rhythm of brushing down the black horse, anguished thoughts drifting away with the repetitive motion. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

A soft voice startled him, making him almost drop the brush. He glanced behind him to see Arthur, looking cold and pale.

“Artorius? What are you doing here?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Arthur said. “I just - I come here, sometimes, when I can’t sleep. I thought maybe tonight I wouldn’t have to be alone…” he trailed off. “Forgive me, Lancelot. I don’t want to intrude. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Something in Lancelot’s chest ached, to see Arthur turn away, dejected, shoulders slumping. 

“Wait, Artorius - Arthur. Please, stay. I - I would rather not be alone with my thoughts tonight, either,” Lancelot said. “You can help me brush Déor.” 

Arthur gave him a small smile, and took up another brush. They groomed the horse quietly for a time, moving in sync almost effortlessly.

Eventually, Lancelot cleared his throat. “If I may ask - why couldn’t you sleep?”

Arthur paused his brushing of Déor’s neck, and looked at Lancelot seriously for a moment. “I’m afraid.”

Lancelot was taken aback. “Afraid? Of what?”

“Of failing you all. Of leading you into battle, and leading you into death,” Arthur replied. “I know it is my duty. I know it is what we’re training for. But all of you - you are under my command, and under my responsibility. And the thought of any of you dying because of me…”

“It won’t be because of you, though. If we die, it will be because Rome commanded we be taken as knights,” Lancelot said.

Arthur shook his head. “Yes, but don’t you see, Lancelot? I am Rome. I will receive orders, and I will command you to follow them, and you may die because of Rome, but it will be my doing.” 

He seemed filled with such anguish, burdened with so much, despite his age. It seemed to Lancelot that, in that moment, he was finally seeing the Arthur that the rest of the boys had come to know, the boy who had been given command over others and had chosen to treat the task with all the care and gravity he could muster. A boy who could become a man they might all be proud to follow. 

“It’s battle, Arthur. No matter how hard we train - one of us is bound to fall, one day,” Lancelot told him. “You can’t carry that weight; not now, not before we’ve even faced a single skirmish. My mother used to say - take each day as it comes. You can do no more.”

Arthur was quiet for a moment. “Your mother sounds like a wise woman. Thank you, Lancelot.”

Lancelot nodded, and began to brush Déor again.

“Is - is that why you couldn’t sleep? You miss her?”

Lancelot swallowed. “I miss them all. My mother, my father. My little sister. Sometimes I miss Sarmatia so much I can hardly breathe… it’s only been six months, and it feels like a lifetime.”

A warm hand clasped his, over the brush.

“You’ll see them again, Lancelot. You’ll see Sarmatia again, I promise,” Arthur said. “Together, we can do it - we can lead the rest of the boys through this. Are you with me?”

And, unaware of the momentous promise he was making, Lancelot replied, “I’m with you.”

+++

“Lancelot, behind you!”

Lancelot ducked, and, twin swords whirling in his hands, pivoted to cut down the Woad charging at him. He glanced up to see Arthur riding past him, sword bloodied and flashing, and nodded in thanks, before moving into the battle once again.

The knights had been sent to protect a village close to the coast, half a day’s ride away from Hadrian’s Wall, which had been raided by a small group of Woads over the last two weeks. Instead of a small band of raiders, however, the knights had been met with an organized attack of at least fifty Woads upon their arrival.

The ensuing battle had been relentless - Woads kept coming at them in waves. Tristan, Galahad and Gaheris had all but run out of arrows, and Bors and Kay had ruined at least two axes by hacking away at everything they could. At some point, Lancelot had dismounted from Déor and simply chosen to engage on foot, deciding his twin blades would be more effective than staying on horseback, and he parried and thrust and methodically dispatched every Woad he found in his path. 

At last, the pace of the battle seemed to wane and the remaining Woads started organizing a haphazard retreat. Some of the knights attempted to give chase, but Lancelot stood his ground and, chest heaving with exhaustion, started counting: Bors, Kay, Bedivere, Gawain, Galahad, Gaheris, Tristan, Dagonet, Percival, Owain, Pellinore, Agravain, Geraint, Lamorak, Gareth, Elyan, Aglovale… 

Something in his chest gave an uneasy warning. And then, unerringly, the way he always seemed to in the midst of battle, his eyes found Arthur, still fighting two Woads who refused to surrender. Lancelot saw the moment Arthur slipped - the ground turned muddy with blood - and even before he knew it he was moving, running across the field and throwing one of his swords at the tallest of the two Woads, giving Arthur enough time to regain his footing and cut down the other one.

With that, it was over.

They hadn’t lost anyone else, at least not in this battle, not today. It would have to count as one of the good days: they would hold a feast, and not a funeral. 

+

Later that night, the knights toasted, triumphant, exchanging laughter and boasts across the Round Table. But Lancelot - Lancelot couldn’t take his eyes away from Arthur, jealous of every glance that wasn’t aimed at him, annoyed at every word not meant for his ears.

He recalled how, in years gone by, when they had been nothing but boys newly arrived at their post, Arthur had followed _him_ around, how he’d sat next to him and dogged his steps, relentless until he earned Lancelot’s trust and friendship.

Earned it he had; that, and so much more. Lancelot now spent his days in the sweetest sort of agony: counting down the years until Sarmatia and freedom were closer, and dreading that it would mean parting from Arthur. Only seven years left, now. 

“Why aren’t you drinking, Lancelot? Rejoice, be merry. We won a great battle today!” Bors interrupted his reverie, clapping him on the back. 

Lancelot forced a smile onto his face. “So we did, my friend. So we did. Forgive me - I’m simply weary.”

“Well, I’ll grant you that - you were a man possessed on the field! Your blades moved faster than anything I’ve ever seen. And that last throw - you saved Arthur, Lancelot. An inspired move.”

“It was just lucky,” Lancelot demurred. 

“Well, here’s to you always being lucky,” Bors said, extending a cup for Lancelot to drink, and tapping his own against it in a toast. 

Lancelot drank deep - it was never a good idea to back out of a toast with Bors - but, soon enough, his eyes returned to Arthur, who was now discussing an issue of equipment for the garrison with Jols and Geraint. He had cleaned up from the battle, and he looked every inch the Roman commander now - no longer a bloodied, sweaty whirlwind in battle, no longer something Lancelot could truly imagine grasping and taking hold of. This Arthur, the Arthur who discussed logistics and wore a shining ceremonial breastplate together with his sweeping red robe - this Arthur was Rome’s, and not Lancelot’s. 

Arthur glanced up, then - green eyes blazing straight at Lancelot - and ducked his chin in gratitude. The debt was not only forgotten; it wasn’t even a debt. Arthur saved Lancelot’s life, and Lancelot did the same, reflexively, without pause for thought. He gave his sword and his sweat and his blood, and he would give more, so much more, if only Arthur asked. If only he weren’t so Roman; if only he didn’t pray so much to his God. 

There had been moments, during the last few years, moments after battle when they were both wound up, or keeping each other company through a sleepless night in the barn, as had become their custom, when Lancelot had thought it might happen, Arthur and him. Moments when Arthur came close, and looked at Lancelot like he was something cherished, and Lancelot felt he would die if he couldn’t kiss him. But Arthur always pulled back, the mask of commander and God-fearing Roman falling over his face, leaving Lancelot wanting.

Shaking himself away from the dangerous memories, Lancelot looked around the room one more time and, quietly, slipped out into the dark night. He was no sort of company right now: he craved what he knew he couldn’t have, and his heart twisted in his chest. Sarmatia, or Arthur? He wanted one, he wanted the other, he wanted both, he wanted neither.

He made his way to the top of the garrison, and stared out into the dark night, watched as his breath drifted into mist and floated up into the stars. Time passed - he didn’t know how much, a changing of the watch, two - and his heart seemed to settle. 

Close to dawn, someone came to stand beside him. It was Arthur; Lancelot didn’t need to look to know.

“A hard battle, today,” Arthur said.

“One we survived,” Lancelot retorted.

“Is it enough?” Arthur asked, something almost plaintive in his voice.

A beat of silence.

“It has to be,” Lancelot said, trying to convince himself as much as Arthur.

Arthur put a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder - the single touch burning, making his every pore sing - and leaned slightly closer. They greeted the new day like that, standing side by side, Lancelot’s treacherous heart pounding once again.

+++

“Why do you always talk to your god and not to me?”

It burst out of Lancelot like venom, angry, hurt and - even if he’d never admit it to anyone else - scared. Instead of the freedom they had longed for, Bishop Germanus had given them nothing more than a death sentence, and Lancelot couldn’t stand Arthur’s equanimity in the face of such a betrayal. “Pray, to whomever you pray, that we do not cross the Saxons.”

“My faith is what protects me, Lancelot,” Arthur replied, something almost hurt in his eyes. “Why do you challenge this?”

“I don’t like anything that puts a man on his knees,” Lancelot replied, one of his hands opening and closing into a fist. He was so angry it felt like he would burn with it.. How could Arthur have agreed to this? And why even give them the illusion of choice? Without the Bishop’s safe-conduct, their lives were forfeit. There was no real choice: there was simply an earlier or later time to die.

“No man fears to kneel before the God he trusts,” Arthur said, eyebrows raised. “Without faith, without belief in something, what are we?”

Lancelot shook his head. There was no challenging Arthur on his faith; he should have learned that lesson long ago. But he could never stop himself, because even after all these years, it still hurt, that Arthur would place so much blind trust on something insubstantial; that he would trust whatever god was over Lancelot himself, flesh and blood and willing to spill every drop of it for Arthur. 

He tried another tack - if faith wouldn’t do it, maybe logic could pull back his reckless commander. “To try to get past the Woads in the north is insanity.”

It was no use. As they traded words and Arthur spoke more and more passionately of the mission - as if the very fate of the free world truly depended on rescuing a Roman boy north of the damned Wall - Lancelot knew that all his words would be as dust. Arthur would go, and Lancelot would follow. And of course, Arthur knew just what to say to collapse the very last of his defenses. 

“With you at my side, we can do so again.”

Lancelot sighed. “Arthur… you fight for a world that will never exist. It will always be a battlefield.” He swallowed. “I will die in battle - of that I am certain. And hopefully a battle of my choosing. But, if it be this one, grant me a favor. Don’t bury me in our sad little cemetery - burn me. Burn me, and cast my ashes to a strong east wind.”

Arthur stared at him, eyes wide and glistening with something like pain, something like tenderness, something like anger. But he said nothing, and, after a moment, Lancelot nodded and turned to leave.

As he walked out of the barn, he felt as if his doom walked next to him, in his shadow, as with the ancient tales of great Sarmatian heroes bound for glory and death. A doom that told him he might never have to choose between Arthur and Sarmatia, after all: the choice would be taken from him. 

+

The next few days were a haze of rain, snow and fear - the threat of the Woads nothing to the threat of the Saxons and their relentless war drums, haunting their every step. Lancelot could barely keep a hold of his temper and his contempt: had Rome truly felt that a man as despicable as Marius Honorius was worth the life of six Sarmatian knights and their Commander? 

And then, of course, there was the girl. Guinevere. A Woad, a beauty, a spirit to match any of the knights’. Lancelot saw how she followed Arthur with her eyes, and how Arthur looked back, and even as he understood - he could hardly look away from her himself - it was one more piercing pain in his chest.

In the dead of night, as he watched Arthur follow Guinevere out into the forest, he clutched his sister’s amulet in his hand and asked of the stars just what else he might lose to this mission from hell itself, which had already taken half his sanity, the fragile peace between his longing and what he knew to be attainable, and his trust in Arthur’s special regard for only him. 

The next day brought a terrifying battle over the ice - a half-mad, half-genius stand against what looked like a full wing of the Saxon’s army - and for a moment, despite the terrible odds, Lancelot felt they might make it. 

Better that he had never dared hope. Better that he had never tempted the ill-luck that had haunted their steps since smirking Germanus had appeared in their lives, better that he had never dared ask the stars what else he might have to contend with. 

As he saw arrow after arrow pierce through Dagonet’s leather breastplate, bright red blood spilling across the white ice, Lancelot couldn’t hold back a hoarse cry. Better that he had swallowed his petty pain and grievances, if only it had meant not losing Dagonet.

Once they were back in the garrison, and Germanus finally gave them six papers of safe-conduct for only five living men, Lancelot felt his doom press even closer, and knew, somehow, that this ill-fated adventure was not done with them yet.

+

“Knights. My journey with you must end here.”

Lancelot closed his eyes, Arthur’s words like an arrow to the chest. He had known it might come to this, when he saw the endless Saxon encampment stretching out before the garrison. He couldn’t keep himself from following Arthur, however, attempting to talk him down from the utter lunacy of trying to hold the garrison against the invading army by himself.

“Arthur. This is not Rome’s fight; is it not your fight,” Lancelot said, hoping against hope that Arthur might refuse to be so damn noble for once in his life. “All these long years we’ve been together, the trials we’ve faced, the blood we’ve shed… What was it all for, if not for the reward of freedom? And now, when we are so close, when it is finally within our grasp-”

Arthur refused to listen, however, moving quickly through the garrison as if preparing for one more mission instead of for certain death.

“Look at me!” Lancelot finally exclaimed, the fear and frustration bubbling over. “Does it all count for nothing?”

Arthur turned to him, closing the distance between them in two quick steps. “You ask me that. You who know me best of all,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

“Then do not do this. Only certain death awaits you here. Arthur, I beg you,” Lancelot pleaded, knowing everything he’d ever felt for Arthur was shining out of his eyes, pouring out in his voice, and not caring, not now. “For our our friendship’s sake, I beg you.”

Arthur placed a warm hand on his shoulder, as he had so many times before, and Lancelot knew that there would be no convincing him.

“You be my friend now, and do not dissuade me,” Arthur said, green eyes burning with the conviction that had turned thirty Sarmatian boys into fearsome knights, which had kept the Woads at bay for fifteen years; which had, in the end, conquered Lancelot himself, despite his reluctance. “Seize the freedom you have earned, and live it for the both of us. I cannot follow you, Lancelot. I know now that all the blood I have shed, all the lives I have taken, have led me to this moment.”

Lancelot let his head drop, and held on to Arthur’s hand for a moment - just one moment - as if by grasping it hard enough he’d be able to keep him safe, somehow, keep him Lancelot’s. But then Arthur walked on, and Lancelot was left grasping at air.

He turned to see Guinevere - beautiful and deadly - and couldn’t help but think that, if anyone’s, Arthur might be hers. 

Or maybe none of them belonged to anyone or anything at all, save the ashes, and the strong east wind. 

+

When Déor and the rest of the Sarmatian horses paused and whinnied at the sound of the Saxon drums, primed for battle, Lancelot knew his doom was come: to live having abandoned Arthur, forever wracked with guilt, or to ride into battle, into certain death. 

With an almost savage grin, and like all Sarmatian knights before him, Lancelot chose battle. Whatever end would come, at least he would meet it fighting for Arthur, at least it would be - as he had always wanted - a battle of his choosing. Arthur’s smile when they rode to meet him was worth the choice, anyway. 

The battle was brutal and clever, Arthur’s traps aligning beautifully with the talents of the Woad fighters. Lancelot was cutting down Saxons left and right, his blades singing in his hands, when he caught sight of Guinevere and one of the Saxon leaders, locked in a fight that wasn’t going Guinevere’s way. Without pausing, he nudged Déor into a hard gallop and arrived with just enough time to intercept the Saxon’s sword from cutting Guinevere’s throat outright.

The Saxon was tough, and fast, but Lancelot was faster. He knocked the Saxon down and, before he could finish him off, was forced to turn and face a new attacker. He didn’t hear the arrows, never saw the Saxon stand up again - all he felt was the sudden, sharp burst of pain near his chest.

With a grimace, Guinevere’s shocked cry echoing strangely in his ears, he forced himself to charge and finish off the Saxon once and for all, before the pain of his wounds brought him to the ground. 

His sight darkened; he felt the blood trickle out, and knew the end couldn’t be slow in coming. Distantly, he heard Guinevere yelling for Merlin, for Jols, for Arthur - calling for bandages and herbs, calling on strange gods to spare him. He felt a hand grip his shoulder, a hand he knew and loved.

The last thing he heard, before losing consciousness at last, was Arthur.

“It was always my life to be taken - not this. Never this. Save him, Merlin. Save him, or lose me.”

+++

Waking up was, at once, painful and unexpected.

“Lancelot,” someone said, nearby. Arthur.

Lancelot attempted to shift to see him, and was immediately regretful as pain shot across his chest and robbed him of breath.

“No, do not move,” Arthur said, standing up and looming slightly over Lancelot. He looked as if he’d barely slept or washed after the battle, hair a mess and more unshaven than Lancelot had ever seen him. “How are you feeling?”

Lancelot tried to speak, but his throat was parched and his lips too dry. 

“Wait, let me get you some water,” Arthur told him, and gently brought a wooden cup of cold water to his lips.

Refreshed, Lancelot cleared his throat. “I feel - I feel as if Déor had stomped on my chest.”

“I’m afraid being shot by bodkin arrows is more or less the same thing,” Arthur told him, smiling slightly. “That Saxon nearly killed you.”

Lancelot nodded slightly. The haze was slow in clearing from his brain, and he was starting to remember the battle, the moment before he fell. He - he shouldn’t have survived those arrows. He remembered knowing, with real certainty, that his life was forfeit. And so, he had to ask.

“Why didn’t he kill me? I - I remember some, I remember the arrows, and I think I might have killed him, but then I fell, and… and the wounds were bad. How am I alive, Arthur?”

Arthur looked at him, no trace of a smile left on his face. “Merlin. And Jols, but, mostly Merlin. I asked him to do what he could, to practice whatever medicine or magic he had…” he trailed off, glancing down at hands which were clenched in Lancelot’s blanket.

“Arthur?” Lancelot prompted.

“I couldn’t let you die, Lancelot,” Arthur finally continued, something uncontrolled in his voice, harking back, in that moment, to the scared boy Lancelot had chosen to follow years ago in a barn in the middle of the night. “I couldn’t let you die, not in a battle I chose to wage. Not for me.”

Oh, Arthur…

“It was a battle of my choosing,” Lancelot said, quietly. “Besides, you really ought to know by now - there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you, Arthur. Dying would be the least of it.”

“Lancelot…” Arthur breathed out, one hand reaching out to cover Lancelot’s. “You - you shouldn’t say those things. I am not worth your life.”

“Are you not?” Lancelot asked. He glanced down at their joined hands, and then met Arthur’s eyes - that all-encompassing, clear green, his perdition. “I asked my father, all those years ago, why so few Sarmatian knights returned - I couldn’t understand it. He told me that some men lost their lives to Rome, and that others lost their hearts. I joined the battle knowing one of those things was true already.”

Arthur simply looked at him, for a moment, and then - unexpectedly, but almost as if he couldn't help himself - leaned forward, and kissed Lancelot deeply. It was every quiet moment of understanding between them, every time they had saved each other’s lives, every time they had clasped shoulders and arms and hands and wished for more. It was Arthur finally claiming Lancelot, finally taking what had been his for longer than Lancelot cared to remember.

They broke for breath after a moment - a second, an eternity - Arthur’s forehead resting on Lancelot’s. 

“I lost my heart also,” Arthur whispered, eventually. “I lost it the moment I saw you racing the rest of the boys in the field outside the garrison, riding Déor. You were angry, and free, and so beautiful.”

Lancelot frowned. “Arthur - that race… that was a week after we arrived.” 

Arthur smiled. “Yes.”

Lancelot could hardly believe it. Before he could begin ranting on the ridiculous self-denial of Romans, and on just how long they might have been doing rather more than kissing, Arthur kissed him again, interrupting his line of thought.

All in all, there were worse things to be distracted by.

+++

There is a legend, of a King, a knight, and a lady. Of a verdant island, its people, the valiant battles they fought for freedom. Some say the knight loved the lady, and the lady loved the knight, and the King loved the land.

Maybe something was confused, in the telling. Perhaps the knight loved the King, and the King loved the knight, and the lady loved the land. Perhaps the lady, and the King, and the knight loved each other. 

Perhaps it doesn’t matter, as long they lived. As long as they loved.


End file.
